A Weekend with Oscar

by Robyn Bavati

I ask Selena to take Oscar down to the cafeteria for half an hour.

  Selena agrees. She understands my need to be alone with Mum. She knows this might be the last chance I ever have.

  “Mum,” I begin, “I’m shit scared of you dying. I’m shit scared of having to live without you.” Mum hates the word “shit”. I always laugh when she tells me off for using it, because I think it’s mild. There are so many words that are worse.

  “I know you don’t like me using that word. I don’t know how else to get your attention.

  “I don’t know why I stopped sharing my feelings with you. Maybe I wanted to protect you from them. I didn’t want you to worry about me. You worried enough about Oscar. But this might be the last time I talk to you and if I can’t be honest, what’s the point?

  “I’ve been so lonely and confused. Ever since Dad died. Some nights, I cry myself to sleep. I never told you that. I tried to be strong. That lion I kept seeing when I closed my eyes . . . Eventually it disappeared, but I never stopped being scared. But I also felt safe, because I knew that you and Dad would look after me, and I’d be okay. That changed after Dad died.”

  Oscar and Selena will be back soon. I only have a few minutes left.

  “Maybe it’s selfish of me telling you how I feel, making you worry about me when you might be dying – God, dying! I hate saying that word. I hate even thinking it.” My voice is breaking.

  I glance up to see Oscar and Selena in the distance. They’re on their way back. I have to say what I came to say, before they get here.

  “Come back to us, Mum. I need you. Oscar needs you. I’m terrified of facing life without you.”

  I’m begging her now, my hand on hers. “Wake up! Please!”

  I fling my arms around her and the tears I’ve been holding in for so long finally fall.

  As Oscar and Selena approach the bed, a cleaner comes in to mop the floor. She watches Oscar, takes in his Down syndrome features and regards him with pity. And I know that it’s a gut reaction.

  But sadness is a great leveller. At this moment, I’m no better off than my younger brother. The tragedy is not that Oscar has Down syndrome, but that two boys could lose their mum.

  I step back to let Oscar say goodbye. He leans into Mum till his face is almost touching hers.

  “Mum, wake up!” He clings to her till Aunt Selena says it’s time to leave.

  The ICU is behind us. We trudge along the corridor, silenced by grief. Aunt Selena presses the button for the lift and we stand without speaking, each of us lost in our private sorrow.

  The lift is slow to arrive. At last, the doors slide open and we’re stepping towards them when we hear someone call.

  “Wait! Wait!”

  I turn around. Megan is hurrying towards us.

  “Your mother – she’s opened her eyes.”

  We rush back to the ICU.

  Megan says we can’t all go in at once. “Only two at a time.” She picks me and Oscar. “Take it easy. Don’t crowd her. Give her space. And don’t expect too much. She’s only just woken up and might be confused. She might not even remember you.”

  The back of Mum’s bed has been raised so she can see us more easily.

  She opens her mouth and tries to speak but nothing comes out. A nurse brings her a glass of water and holds it to her lips. She takes a sip.

  “Do you know who these people are?” Megan asks.

  “Of course.” Mum’s voice is weak and croaky, but she manages to get the words out. “How could I forget my boys?”

  The staff are elated. My mother has defied the odds.

  Did my talking help? Or was it Oscar’s hug that woke her? Or plain good luck?

  Who knows? Who cares?

  The next half hour whirls by in a blur. Mum drifts in and out of sleep. She is no longer in a coma. Arrangements are made to transfer her to Melbourne.

  “She’ll need extensive physical and mental therapy,” Megan explains, “and we can’t know at this stage if she’ll ever make a full recovery, or how long it will take. But the fact that she recognised you and spoke coherently is a very good sign.”

  Relief flows through me like sunlight, like air.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  I text Zara to let her know Mum’s woken up. She texts back a row of emojis – balloons and champagne.

  Then I text Dan.

  On the flight home, Selena sits next to Oscar. I sit right in front of him, next to the window. The world looks so different now from the way it did a week ago, a day ago, six hours ago. It looks a whole lot better.

  “Good morning, Jamie.” Selena’s in the kitchen putting groceries away. “Oscar’s gone to school, but I didn’t want to wake you. I hope that’s okay.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  Selena whips up an omelette for me. “Sit down and eat. It won’t matter if you’re late today after all that you’ve been through. I’ll ring the school.”

  Selena’s always been a fabulous cook. I take a bite of omelette with a slab of bread and realise how hungry I am.

  “The hospital rang,” Selena says. “Your mum’s due to arrive in Melbourne this afternoon. I’ll take you to see her.”

  I’m late to class but it’s not a problem. Now that Selena has phoned the school, what Oscar and I have gone through is no longer a secret.

  “I wish you’d felt able to tell me,” Mrs Malone says when the lesson is over.

  I shrug awkwardly. “What would you have done if I had?”

  “We’d have tried to help. The school community would have provided support. And we’d have told the relevant authorities. Social services. Police.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. I’d already lost my dad. I might have lost my mum. I didn’t want to lose my brother too.”

  “Oh, Jamie. You wouldn’t have lost him. There are very good foster homes for disabled children. We’d have made sure he was in one where you could visit him often.”

  That would have been my nightmare come true.

  “He’s my brother. I wanted him living with me.”

  I was right to keep Mum’s absence a secret. Mrs Malone’s words have confirmed it. Coping on my own was tough, but I protected Oscar; it was worth it.

  I text Dan at lunchtime. “Are you at school?”

  He is. We meet at the cafeteria and he fills me in while we’re waiting for Zara. He’s coming to school regularly now, since he’s no longer in the accelerated class.

  “How did you manage it?” I ask.

  “Took your advice. I went to Patterson for help.”

  “Whose advice did you take?” I can’t resist stirring and he responds by giving me a playful shove.

  “So, what did Patterson do?”

  “Explained to my mum that it’s against school policy to force kids into accelerated, and that I’d have a better chance of doing well if I was happy and took my time.

  “He said something interesting . . .”

  “What?” I ask.

  “That it takes strength to ask for help, to admit that you’re struggling. He said it’s always the strongest people who ask for help.”

  I mull this over. “I’m not sure I agree.” I always thought the strongest people coped on their own.

  Dan shrugs. “You know how Mr Larch has been telling you all year to go see Patterson? Well, maybe you should. Hey, your girlfriend’s here.” I follow his gaze and catch sight of Zara. I turn to Dan to tell him I’ll go bring her over, but he’s already gone.

  Zara and I hurry towards each other. The last time I saw her was the day of Oscar’s party – nine days and a lifetime ago. We wrap our arms around each other and I wind my fingers through her honey-blonde hair.

  We pull apart just enough to look into each other’s eyes. Hers are brimming with tears.

  I put a finger to her cheek and catch one. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing now. I was just so worried you’d lose your mum.”

  “You were worried? I was terr
ified.” I wrap my arms more firmly around her. It feels so good to touch her, to feel the weight of her against my chest, the pressure of her arms on my back as she pulls me closer.

  I don’t realise we have an audience till I hear the catcalls. “Woo-hoo!” “Get a room!”

  Lunchtime’s nearly over. I grab Zara by the hand and lead her to a nearby table. Soon we’re sharing her salad and the tuna and cucumber sandwiches Selena made before I had a chance to tell her she didn’t have to make my lunch, I’m capable of making my own.

  “I’m so glad you got your mum back,” Zara says between mouthfuls. “I can’t imagine what you must have gone through.”

  “It still feels like a very bad dream.”

  We keep on talking and eventually I mention Dan. “There’ll be no one to make me laugh in class, but I’m glad for him that the pressure’s off.”

  Zara grows thoughtful. “You know,” she says, “I always thought that I was under pressure to excel because Hayley couldn’t.”

  “Yeah, I can relate to that,” I say.

  “But I realise now, it isn’t true. My parents expected me to do well – they’d always been told I was smart – but they never pushed me the way Dan’s mum pushed him. I pressure myself. So do you.”

  “Do I?” I ask.

  “Absolutely. You’re always trying to be the perfect brother, perfect friend, perfect son. Your standards are impossibly high. But we don’t have to be perfect. No one is.”

  You are, I want to say.

  “And I think,” Zara continues, “that if we expect too much of ourselves, we probably expect too much from others too.”

  By the time Zara and I are ready to go to our separate classes, the corridors are almost empty. We head down the one that houses the Year 10 lockers. Felicity Taylor is at the far end of it, heading towards us.

  “You never did tell me what happened with you and Felicity,” Zara says.

  “Nothing to tell.” I think of what Zara just said about my standards being “impossibly high”. I expected too much of Felicity, that was all. She failed the Oscar test, but she wasn’t deliberately nasty. I held her to impossible standards. She didn’t deserve my scorn.

  “Felicity’s okay,” I tell Zara now. “I liked her for about a minute.” Not nearly as much as I like you.

  When we reach her locker, Zara grabs her laptop and rushes off.

  I’ve just reached my locker when Felicity walks past with an armload of books. I catch her eye, give her a nod. A silent apology. She smiles back. Sometimes, no words are needed. A tiny gesture is all it takes.

  It becomes a pattern, visiting Mum after school. Ten days have passed since we returned to Melbourne. The rehabilitation hospital is in Brighton, just a five-minute drive from our house in Trent Street. Selena takes me there to visit Mum each afternoon, and if he’s not too busy with after-school activities, Oscar comes too. In addition to chauffeuring, Selena has also taken over the shopping and cooking.

  I’ve gone back to coaching all-abilities basketball on Mondays – Michael, Lucy and Tammy gave me a hero’s welcome once they found out what I’d been through; and to shooting, or missing, goals on Wednesdays. Dylan’s excitement at seeing me reached a level rivalled only by Oscar.

  Selena has just dropped Oscar off at his drumming lesson and the two of us are on our way, once again, to visit Mum.

  “Thank you,” I say, as we get out of the car. “And not just for the lift.”

  “Then what?”

  “For everything.”

  “Don’t thank me, Jamie,” Selena says. “It’s the least I can do. Besides, it helps me forget.”

  “About Roger?” I ask.

  “Who’s he?” Selena’s still laughing when we enter Mum’s room. “How’s the patient?”

  “Impatient,” Mum says. “Can’t wait to get home.”

  Mum’s not the only one who’s impatient. I am too. I can’t wait till she’s home and well enough for real conversation. When she is, I’ll talk to her as if every day might be her last, or mine, and I’ll ask her everything I’ve ever wanted to know. I’ll keep talking and asking till there are no more words or questions left inside me.

  For now, though, I have no choice but to wait.

  According to the staff, Mum has made “remarkable progress”. She still can’t remember anything about the accident and sometimes jumbles dates and times, but she’s responding well to the therapies.

  We sit with her while she eats her very early dinner.

  Her eyes start to close. We leave so she can get some sleep.

  On the way home, Selena is as quiet as I am.

  “Mum never used to be so tired,” I say, breaking the silence.

  “Well, she’s been through a terrible trauma. And rehab is exhausting. But don’t worry, Jamie. She’s well on her way to recovery.”

  Most nights, I’m scared to close my eyes because of the nightmares that come with sleep. It doesn’t seem to matter what time I go to bed, or whether I drink warm milk before sleeping. The dreams lie in wait, ready to pounce when I let my guard down. I dream of morphing into Oscar, being flung from a spinning car, or lying in a coma, conscious but unable to speak or open my eyes. I dream of being buried, heart thumping in my chest while I try to shout that I’m still alive. I dream of dungeons and monsters, of drowning in water that muffles sound.

  Tonight, I dream of looking for my father and instead finding Dan, trapped in one of Zara’s bottles. If I smash the bottle, he’ll be torn to shreds by broken glass.

  I wake up sweating, clenching my jaw.

  In the light of day, I think about how vulnerable we are, never knowing when an accident like Mum’s might occur. Death or disability can happen in an instant – a split second is all it takes.

  As I dress for school, I have an epiphany. I realise I’m terrified of becoming disabled. And disability reminds me of my own vulnerability. Maybe that’s why so many people are uncomfortable around people with disabilities – they’re terrified of becoming like them. Maybe that’s why the Ethan Chandlers of this world would rather have people with disabilities locked away in institutions, out of sight, where they can’t trigger those feelings of discomfort and fear.

  It’s Sunday morning, I’ve slept late, and Selena is getting ready to take Oscar to soccer. It feels good knowing someone else is caring for Oscar and I can be a kid again. I help myself to a bowl of cereal, still in the rumpled T-shirt and boxers I wore to bed. I take my time getting dressed, glad I can go to Zara’s alone.

  I find Zara in her shed, paintbrush in hand.

  “Hi,” I say. She spins around, startled.

  “Sorry.” I try to stifle my laughter.

  “No, you’re not.” A slow, cheeky smile spreads across her face. “Come closer, Jamie.”

  I’m walking towards her when she flicks the brush in my direction. A splotch of paint lands on my face. I let out a gasp and touch the damp spot with my finger. The paint is bright red. Now it’s not only on my cheek, it’s on my finger too.

  I reach her in two quick strides and smear paint on her face. She’s laughing and yelling, and flicking more paint at me. It’s all over my face and hair, not to mention my jacket and jeans.

  I lunge towards her and she dances away. I chase her around the shed and catch her, and we keep smearing paint all over each other and shrieking with laughter.

  “Truce!” she calls out finally, breathless.

  At last our laughter turns to silence. I pull her towards me. For a while we stand with our arms around each other, neither of us moving or speaking. It’s kind of perfect – not the least bit awkward or uncomfortable.

  There are ways to communicate without saying a word. Some people talk nonstop without saying anything. Sometimes, silence says more.

  But if Mum hadn’t woken up, I might never have had the chance to talk to her properly. I won’t make that mistake again. Not with Mum, not with Zara, not with anyone.

  “Zara, you once said I was easy to talk to.”


  “You are,” she says.

  “There are some things I haven’t opened up about.”

  “Like what?” she asks.

  I’m so self-conscious right now, but I plunge in anyway. “Like my feelings for you.”

  She bites her lip, looks up at me shyly.

  “It will be,” I do a quick calculation in my head, “six weeks tomorrow since I first met you. It scares me how much I feel for you.”

  Her voice drops to a whisper. “It scares me too.”

  Zara gives one last glance at the painting on the easel. “I’ll finish that later. Let’s go inside.”

  The house is quiet. All I can hear is the rustle of wind in the trees outside. Zara’s parents are out with Hayley.

  In the kitchen, Zara offers me orange juice and biscuits. I watch her put them on the table.

  Suddenly our arms are around each other, our bodies pressed together – as if there’s no other place for our bodies to be. Zara’s scent envelops me. The warmth of her skin through her paint-spattered shirt sends little currents, like shocks, right through me.

  In the silence of the moment, I hear my own heartbeat and wonder if Zara hears it too.

  She lifts her face to mine. I could lose myself in the depths of her eyes.

  “You haven’t kissed me yet,” she says.

  “I’ve been dying to. There were always other people around.”

  “Loads of people,” she jokes.

  “What if I stuff it up?” I ask.

  “You couldn’t,” she says.

  She leans in towards me, her mouth a magnet that draws mine closer. My lips graze hers.

  Her lips are softer than I could have imagined.

  We deepen the kiss. The world disappears.

  There is nothing but this moment and Zara. Zara. Zara.

  My heart is full of something indescribable, something that crowds out everything else. I want this moment to last forever.

  It doesn’t, of course. It’s broken by the sound of a key in a lock. Zara and I spring apart as her parents and Hayley enter the house. By the time they reach the kitchen, we’re sitting at the table, eating biscuits, drinking juice. But Zara’s face is a dead giveaway. Mine might be too.